


Feels Like Home

by liroa15



Series: Soulmates 'verse [1]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-08
Updated: 2017-07-08
Packaged: 2018-11-21 23:33:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11367918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/liroa15/pseuds/liroa15
Summary: Sometimes soulmates are a lot of work. Like a lot of work.





	Feels Like Home

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shmorgas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shmorgas/gifts).



> For the Poly Hockey Exchange 2017. Many thanks to S and L (who doesn't even go here) for looking it over and listening to me rant about it for like 6 weeks.

The thing about Pearson is that it’s kind of a clusterfuck on the best of days, and today is really not the best of days. Mitch is stuck behind a large group—a family reunion or something—when all he wants to do is catch an Uber and sleep for a week. Customs was a fucking nightmare of people wanting to congratulate him on second place at Worlds and talk about their hopes for the Leafs next season when all Mitch wants to do is forget that hockey exists for a while.

His left wrist is itching, and he reaches over to scratch it, momentarily confused when his fingers encounter the fabric of his wristguard instead of skin. That, more than anything, tells him just how tired he is: he’s been wearing his wristguards in public since he was fourteen years old and his names came in.

Names. Plural. As in not just one. His mother’s always said he was an overachiever, after all.

His phone beeps in his pocket, probably a text from Rogers telling him that he’s back in the motherland or something, but Mitch digs it out anyway. He’s got the expected text telling him he’s back on the Rogers network, a slew of congratulatory texts from friends and teammates that he hasn’t had the heart to look through yet, and one from Davo.

_where u @_ Davo’s sent. Mitch snaps him back a picture of an unimpressed face with enough of the airport in the background and the caption _hell_ that he should get the idea. Davo’s probably spent as much time in Pearson in the last couple years as Mitch. More maybe.

Davo snaps him back an unimpressed selfie that looks a lot like it was taken in Pearson with the caption _wat gate loser_. 

Mitch snaps back a picture of the group in front of him without bothering to caption it. 

_think I see you_ Davo texts after a second. _u luk dumb_

He sends Davo back the middle finger emoji because that’s what Davo deserves. 

It takes a couple of minutes to make his way through the crowd of reunions and spot Davo leaning against a wall out of the general flow of traffic by a couple of vending machines. He’s wearing an Oilers snapback, a long-sleeved, charcoal Henley, and a pair of tight jeans. Connor always wears long sleeves when he’s got the chance because he hates wearing ‘guards. Everyone knows he’s intensely private about his names.

“Hey,” Mitch greets, letting his gear bag rest at his feet. “What are you doing here?”

Davo shrugs. “Didn’t think you’d want to take an Uber. Besides, it’s not like I’ve got anything better to do right now.”

If it were anyone else, Mitch would probably chirp them, but this is Davo, and he knows just how personally Davo takes tough losses. There’s probably not much that’s tougher than an NHL Game 7 playoff loss.

“Thanks,” he mumbles awkwardly, fiddling with the guard on his left wrist absently. “We should probably get out of here before people realize that McJesus is standing right there.”

“More like their second favourite Leaf,” Davo says with his douchebag grin firmly in place. 

“Oh, fuck you,” Mitch returns because that, at least, is safe. 

“Come on,” Davo commands, hefting Mitch’s gear bag. “Before pictures start showing up on Twitter.”

Mitch’s pretty sure it’s too late for that, at least when it comes to himself, but he must admit that a picture of him and Davo reuniting in an airport would attract _a lot_ more attention. Attention that neither of them really wants. “Yeah, let’s get out of here,” he agrees.

Davo doesn’t say anything until they’re in his car, a monstrously huge Range Rover, leaving Pearson. “You can sleep if you’re jetlagged,” he says, flicking through the radio stations until he lands on something Top 40. “It’s gonna take a while to get there.”

“Get where?” Mitch asks suspiciously. 

Davo shoots him a look that says he’s a moron. “Windsor,” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the entire world. And, really, Mitch supposes, it is. Stromer’s in Windsor, and Davo will pretty much always choose to be wherever Stromer is.

“Yeah, of course,” Mitch agrees, letting his head rest against the window. “Wake me up when we get there.”

~

Mitch can barely sleep the night before he turns 14. Both his parents and his brother have reminded him about a million times that his soulmate’s name and mark may not appear right on his 14th birthday. He may have to wait until his soulmate turns 14 for the name and accompanying mark that’s supposed to indicate your common interest to appear on his wrist. Or he may be one of those rare cases where no name ever shows up.

Mitch, however, is sure that it’ll be there when he wakes up. He knows deep down in his soul or his heart or the very back of his brain or whatever decides this shit that he’s going to know exactly who his perfect match—the other half of his soul--is on his 14th birthday. 

He’s not wrong. 

But he’s not exactly right either.

He goes to sleep as a 13-year-old with no name or mark on his wrist, and he wakes up as a 14-year-old with two.

At first, he thinks it must be some kind of mistake. That his brother is playing the worst joke ever on him. He tries to scrub the names off but only manages on turn his skin on the inside of his wrists red and raw. Neither the names nor the marks fade at all.

In the end, he has to accept that the universe is playing some cosmic joke on him and head down to breakfast where his parents are waiting with bated breath. 

His mother takes one look at his wrists and calls his school to tell them that Mitch won’t be in class today. Then she calls his doctor and makes an appointment for later that afternoon and bundles him into the car to go and buy wristguards. It’s not like Mitch will be making a statement by wearing them; lots of people like to keep their soulmate’s name and mark private unless they’re actively searching for that person. 

The guards are made of heavy fabric, and they itch. Mitch already hates them—he wasn’t actually planning on wearing one before he woke up this morning--but there’s no way in hell he’s letting anyone see the names and marks etched on his wrists. 

It’s not that he’s necessarily ashamed of the fact that he’s got a name on each wrist, or even that they’re both guys. Although he can’t deny that he’s still a little freaked out by the whole thing. It’s more that Mitch knows both of them. Hell, they’re already predicting that Mr. Exceptional Connor McDavid will be the first overall draft pick in 2015.

And as for Dylan Strome? Mitch has played against him more times that he can count, has made an art of digging under his skin and getting him to take stupid penalties. He’s pretty sure there’s no one on the entire planet who hates him more than Dylan Strome. 

“I’m sure everything will work out, honey,” his mother tells him on the way to the doctor.

“Yeah, Mom,” he agrees, pressing his head against the glass of the passenger’s side window and trying not to fiddle with his new ‘guards. “For sure.”

~

Davo does wake him up when they get to Windsor, at least enough for Mitch to take the room key Davo shoves into his hand, grab his bag, and stumble to his room. He’s just finished faceplanting on the bed when Davo appears in the doorframe. “Game’s at 7,” he says. Mitch grunts something that Davo will probably take as agreement even though it’s just noise. 

Davo pokes him in the side a couple of times before Mitch bothers to open one eye enough to glare at him. Connor’s pushed up his sleeves now that they’re out of the public eye, and Dylan’s name and the crossed hockey sticks and maple leaf that form his mark are on display. Mitch knows Davo’s other wrist bears his name and mark. “Leave me alone, Davo,” he grumbles. “I just flew halfway around the world, and I’m fucking tired.”

“We’re all fucking tired,” Davo snaps. “But this is Dyls’s moment, and he deserves our support.”

_Like I did last year?_ Mitch wants to demand, but he knows it wouldn’t do any good. Since his 14th birthday and his names appeared, he’s spent most of his time knowing that he’s nothing more than an afterthought, that what Stromer and Davo—always Stromer and Davo because he can’t let them be Dylan and Connor—feel for each other is so much more than what either of them feel for him. 

And hell, he’s even managed to make his peace with it, mostly. It’s not like he can rewrite the names on his skin. Hell, it’s not even like he would really want to. There’s no one he loves in the entire world more than he loves Stromer and Davo. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Mitch grumbles, pushing himself upright. “But if you think I’m going to wear some of your ugly ass Otters shit, you’re fucking delusional.”

Davo throws the jersey at him with a smirk. It says _Strome 19_ on the back, and Mitch would love nothing more than to be able to wear it and proudly support his soulmate, but he won’t. He can’t. 

He throws it back at Davo and takes a second to glory in his laugh before Davo bundles him back into the fucking Range Rover and to the WFCU Centre.

~

If pressed, Mitch would have to admit that the thing about having soulmates, soulmates who play hockey even, that surprises him the most is how nothing changes. 

He starts wearing his wristguards all the time, even when he’s playing, and he gets a lot of chirps on the ice about it, mostly from his own guys who think that there’s the name of someone famous or a total dog underneath. 

Dylan Strome still fucking hates his guts. Mitch does absolutely nothing to try and change that. If anything, he digs a little bit deeper, tries a little bit harder to get Stromer mad. 

It works. Of course it does. Mitch has never known when to quit.

Connor McDavid goes first overall to Erie as a 15-year-old, exceptional in pretty much every way. And the thing about him is that he’s just such a genuinely nice guy on top of it all that Mitch can’t even hate him for completely fucking up his life. He wears two ‘guards whenever he has to do press and refuses to answer any questions about them. Most of the media speculate he doesn’t even want the press to know on which wrist his soulmate’s name is located.

Dylan (and his two wristguards that no one asks him about) goes second overall to Erie the next year because the universe fucking hates him, and Mitch has to wait until the London Knights pick him in the first round, 19th overall, to see if anyone thinks he’s good enough.

It should be all the validation he needs, a big fuck you to everyone who ever said he was too small to make it in this game. 

It should be the happiest moment of his entire life, but all he can think about is the fact that Connor and Dylan are going to be together, and he’s going to be 400 kilometres away from them.

~

The WCFU Centre is full of fans who have made the trip from Erie and Seattle and all around the continent, rowdy in a way that Mitch remembers from Red Deer last year. There’s a sense of nostalgia, of homecoming, but there’s also a strangeness to it. Like trying to shove his feet into skates he’s outgrown. He wonders if Davo feels the same way. 

He grabs a coffee from one of the concessions and pours a shit-ton of sugar in it to try and keep himself awake because the time change is really kicking his ass. Fucking jetlag.

It’s a good game. Both teams are playing like they have something to prove, and Mitch remembers the adrenaline of that first game, remembers being scared shitless that they were going to fuck it all up. 

Erie ends up winning in a close one—4-2 on the empty netter—and Mitch knows that Davo’s going to want to go down to the room and see his boys and congratulate them on their winning start. And sure enough, as soon as Davo finishes signing autographs for the few kids enterprising enough to approach him, he starts heading down towards the locker rooms. Mitch follows him down and mills around awkwardly in the hall until Davo and Stromer reappear.

Stromer’s hair is still wet from the shower, and still dyed that hideous yellow, but he’s smiling. He looks great.

“Marns!” he all but shouts. “When did you get back?”

Mitch shrugs. “This morning.” 

Stromer looks like he wants to ask about it, but also like he knows better. Mitch is grateful for it because the last thing he wants to do is talk about Worlds while the sting of defeat is still so fucking fresh. 

“You must be beat,” Stromer says instead, eying Mitch critically.

“Wouldn’t miss this, Stromer,” Mitch answers, ignoring Davo’s snort. “You looked good out there. Gonna go all the way, huh?”

Stromer smiles at him. “Gonna give it my best shot, bud,” he agrees. 

“They’ll never see you coming,” Mitch chirps. “Mostly because that terrible hair will have burned out their retinas, but gotta play to your strengths.”

“I’ll show you strengths,” Stromer chirps back, shoving at his shoulder. It’s fond though, gentle in a way it didn’t used to be. 

“We’ll let you get back to it,” Davo says. “You got this, Dyls.”

Stromer reaches out and hugs Davo. It seems to go on forever, but it’s probably only a minute. Mitch can see Stromer’s lips moving against Davo’s shoulder, and even though he can’t see it, Mitch is sure Davo’s answering him.

“Come here, Marns,” Stromer demands when he lets go of Davo. Marns steps into his embrace. Stromer still smells faintly of body wash and whatever cologne he uses and, underneath it all, hockey locker room. “Thanks for coming, man,” Stromer says against his hair.

Mitch doesn’t say anything in response, but he does squeeze Stromer a little harder than normal. “Wish I could be out there with you,” he mumbles because it’s true. 

“Me too, Marns,” Stromer says. “Me too.”

~

Mitch is fucking stoked to be at the U17 World Hockey Challenge. He’s fucking stoked to be representing Team Ontario. He’s not fucking stoked to be sharing the ice with Dylan fucking Strome, especially since Stromer has made his opinion of Mitch and his play abundantly clear. So Stromer basically stays with his people, and Mitch stays with his people, and they try not to kill each other at practice or on the bench.

And it mostly works.

Until it doesn’t.

They’re down by three going into the third against Russia, and Coach Hunt looks like he’s going to have an aneurysm in the room. Mitch is mostly focusing on visualizing what he needs to do better in the third, which is pretty much fucking everything.

“All right,” Coach Hunt says, and the guys all quiet down to hear what he he’s going to say. “We’re changing up the lines going into the third. Marner, Strome, you’re together…” 

Coach Hunt keeps going, but Mitch tunes him out. He turns to look at Stromer and ends up meeting his eyes since Stromer’s already staring at him. It’s… intense is probably the best word for it.

_I wanna fucking win this thing,_ Mitch thinks, and he can see it echoed in Stromer’s face, in the quirk of his eyebrows. 

And maybe this is what having a soulmate is supposed to be like because once they get on the same line, they’re fucking magic. Mitch gets a hat trick in the third period, and Stromer’s there at his side the entire time, screaming in his ear and telling him where to be and when and to get fucking open, and it’s fucking magical.

Mitch has loved hockey more than anything in the world for as long as he can remember, but it’s never been like this before. Never been this easy, this simple, this perfect.

They lose in a shootout, but the sting of that is soothed by Stromer bumping their shoulders together on their way down the tunnel. “My room tonight,” he says. “I’ll make sure it’s just the two of us.”

Mitch can’t think of a single thing to say to that, which never happens. Like, he can’t ever remember not being able to think of a single thing to say in his entire life. Most of his teammates would say that it’s impossible to get him to shut up. 

They sit together on the bus back to the hotel, and Mitch follows Stromer up to his room. As promised, his roommate does indeed clear out. Mitch settles on the end of one of the beds, feeling like an awkward turtle or something. Stromer tosses a bunch of laundry into his bag and grabs the remote. “What do you want to watch?” he asks, motioning towards the still blank TV screen.

 

“Whatever,” Mitch says because he’s afraid to push too much and break this newfound peace or whatever it is. Stromer tosses him the remote and settles at the head of the bed, and they amuse themselves making fun of people on _Say Yes to the Dress_.

“God,” Dylan moans. “All these dresses are hideous.” 

And yeah, they kind of are. Like, clearly these girls should wear whatever the fuck they want while they get married, but some of these dresses are truly hideous. And this girl on screen gushing about how she finally met her soulmate, and she can’t wait to start their happily ever after apparently really wants a dress made of enough material to clothe an entire hockey team.

“Well, at least she looks happy,” Mitch mumbles, his attention split between the screen and Stromer, who’s fiddling with his wristguard.

“I fucking hate these things,” Stromer says when he notices Mitch watching him. “And it’s not like you don’t know what it says, huh?” 

And yeah, Mitch probably knows what it says under both of those ‘guards, though he doesn’t like to assume. Stromer undoes the Velcro and tosses first one and then the other onto the nightstand between the beds. 

And the thing is, Mitch has never seen what his soul mark looks like. How could he? It’s not like he’s had extensive contact with either Stromer or McDavid off-ice up until now. And on-ice is a completely different matter. On-ice he’s there to win no matter who’s across from him. 

So, yeah, it’s a little more emotional, bigger somehow, than he thought it would be to see his name on Dylan Strome’s wrist, and underneath it the same crossed hockey sticks and maple leaf that reside under Dylan’s name. (And under McDavid’s for that matter.) 

But yeah, it’s his name there, in his best writing.

“Weird, right?” Stromer asks, and it hits Mitch like a fist to the gut that Stromer’s already seen his own name and mark on McDavid’s wrist. 

“Yeah,” he manages to get out. 

For a second, he thinks Stromer’s going to ask to see Mitch’s wrists, but his laptop bings with an incoming Skype, and Stromer’s over to it like a shot.

“Davo!” he crows as soon as the call connects. “How’s Ufa?”

Which, right, McDavid is with the World Juniors team in Russia right now. Mitch doesn’t know why he forgot that. Self-preservation, probably.

“Good,” Connor McDavid’s grainy face says. “It’s been good. How’s Halifax?”

Stromer shrugs. “Good. Damp. I’ve got a new liney.”

“Yeah? Who?” McDavid asks, and Stromer literally grabs him by the arm and pulls him into the frame. “I think you know Marns,” he says with a grin.

“Marns,” McDavid practically croons, like he was expecting this or something. Fucking hockey Jesus. “How are you? How was dragging this anchor around?”

“Eh, you know,” Mitch replies, waving his hand back and forth. He can already tell that he and McDavid are going to get along great. Then again, McDavid’s always seemed pretty laidback for the next coming of hockey Jesus. 

“I do,” McDavid agrees with just enough of a smirk that Mitch knows he’s chirping Stromer.

“Laugh it up, McJesus,” Stromer says. “I’ll remember this when we’re back in Erie.”

“Marns will protect me,” McDavid asserts.

“Marns will be back in London,” Mitch corrects. “Pretty sure you’re on your own there, Davo.”

“Some soulmate you turned out to be,” Davo grumbles. The smile on his face gives him away though.

Something in the vicinity of Mitch’s heart turns over at how casually McDavid says it. 

“Well, he’s my soulmate too, so what did you expect?” Stromer demands, wrapping an arm around Mitch’s shoulders and pulling him close enough to press a messy kiss to the side of his head. Mitch makes a show of trying to wipe it off to cover just how off balance he feels. 

McDavid laughs. Mitch decides he really likes the sound.

They don’t end up winning the tournament. Hell, they don’t even manage to beat the Americans, but Mitch and Stromer spend the rest of the tournament on the same line, and by the time he heads back to London, he’s got both Dylan and Connor’s numbers in his phone as Stromer and Davo. They’ve also got a group chat that’s full of chirps and other shit talk.

So pretty much like every other hockey friendship Mitch has ever had in his life.

It’s good and easy, and if it’s not quite what he expected with his soulmates, it’s still better than he thought it would be. 

~

Davo’s quiet on the way back to the hotel, and Mitch leans his head against the window and tries to stay awake. If he hadn’t been up for so long, he’d probably be more worried that Davo isn’t giving him a play-by-play of the game: what everyone did well, what they need to improve for next time, what he knows about St. John. 

Mitch has been awake for like three straight days though, so he’s mostly just glad he doesn’t have carry half of the conversation. Or, like a quarter. Davo’s pretty capable of holding most of a conversation about hockey all by himself. 

Davo helps him get his key card in the lock. “Sorry,” he mumbles. 

“Go to sleep, Marns,” Davo laughs. “You’ll feel more human in the morning.”

When he wakes up the next morning, he feels halfway to human. There’s a bottle of water on the nightstand. Mitch downs most of it, and then forces himself to rifle through his suitcase to find some mostly clean clothes. It’s not an easy task since it’s not like he did a lot of laundry in either Paris or Cologne. 

His silver medal is wrapped up in one of his Team Canada shirts, and it falls out when he dumps a bunch of dirty clothes onto the floor looking for the mostly clean pair of shorts he knows is in there.

He ends up staring at it, remembering the weight of it when they hung it about his neck, the weight of failure hanging over the entire team. He took it off and wrapped it up as soon as he could, and he wasn’t planning on looking at it ever again.

“I brought coffee, Marns,” Davo announces, waltzing in like a key card thief. “I even got you your disgusting triple-triple.”

“Fuck you, my coffee is not disgusting,” Marns replies automatically, holding out his hand. 

“How are you feeling?” Davo asks. “I know jetlag is a bitch.”

Mitch shrugs. “A little better. I slept like the dead.”

Davo grins cheekily. “I know. You kick in your sleep.”

“Stromer’s gonna be jealous,” Mitch teases.

Davo doesn’t laugh like he’s supposed to at the weak chirp. Instead, his eyes are glued to the medal. Mitch feels the irrational urge to hide it. Davo is Canada’s golden son; this seems beneath him.

“Have you worn it since, you know?” Davo asks, and Mitch can’t stop himself from flinching at the thought.

“I didn’t even look at it,” he admits quietly. “Just tossed it in my suitcase.” There’s a thousand other things he wants to say. Sorry for not being better, for letting down their nation, for letting Connor down. After all, Davo had scored the golden goal last year against Finland.

“Give it here,” Davo demands, holding out his hand. Mitch doesn’t want to hand it over, doesn’t want to give Davo tangible proof of his failure, but he can’t deny his soulmate anything. 

He hands over the medal.

He doesn’t really expect Davo to loop it about his neck. It’s cold against his bare chest.

“I’m proud of you, Marns,” Davo says. 

“We lost, Davo,” Mitch replies. “ _I_ lost.” _You wouldn’t have_ , he doesn’t bother to add.

“We all lose sometimes, Mitch,” Davo agrees. “That doesn’t mean I’m not proud of you. You and Point and TK were great.”

“You watched?” Mitch asks.

“Of course I watched,” Davo says, and he actually sounds offended. “You’re my soulmate, Marns. I watch every game of yours I can. Dyls too.”

It’s too serious, too much of what Mitch wants and knows he can never have. “Yeah, well, I’m not watching Oilers games for you,” he says, trying to deflect. “Orange makes my eyes bleed.”

Davo grins at him. “That’s fine, but you’re going to be watching me lift the Cup real soon,” he promises, and there’s something about it that seems more like a promise than baseless arrogance.

Mitch swallows around the lump in his throat. The metal of his medal has warmed against his chest so that it’s almost as warm as he is, almost a part of him. “Sure, Davo,” he agrees. 

“Dyls is doing team bonding shit all day, so we can’t really hang with him, but I Googled cool things to do in Windsor,” Davo says.

“And you came up with nothing because there’s nothing cool to do in Windsor?” 

Davo shrugs. “Pretty much. So I figured we could hang out here today.”

“I should probably phone my mom and tell her I’m still alive,” Mitch mumbles, taking his medal off and tossing it back into his suitcase. 

“You do that,” Davo agrees. “I’m gonna go for a run and then take a shower.”

“You have fun. I’m gonna take a nap, and then maybe I’ll join you in the shower.”

Later, much later, they both send Snaps to Stromer. Most of Mitch’s Snaps are pictures of Davo wandering around the room naked because if there was ever a sight to inspire someone, it’s that. He gets back a bunch of unimpressed faces from Stromer, but Mitch is pretty sure that’s just because he’s not here to see Davo in all his naked glory. 

“We should go get food,” Davo says.

“You should put on some clothes,” Mitch replies.

Davo flips him off, but that does nothing to dispel the warm feeling swelling in his chest. 

~

Mitch makes sure to stay in contact with both his soulmates, which isn’t that hard. Where one is, the other usually isn’t far away. By the end of the season, he knows almost as much about the Otters as he does his own Knights, which is weird but not unwelcome. He likes being a big part of their lives, but most of the time he feels more like a spectator than a participant. 

So he’s a little surprised when he gets the invite to the Strome family ball hockey tournament. Mitch is hesitant about it because he doesn’t know what Stromer’s parents know. 

“Come on, Marns. It’ll be great,” Stromer says when they Facetime about it. “Everyone is super chill, and Davo’s coming too.”

Mitch rolls his eyes because _of course_ Davo is coming. He’s pretty sure Stromer’s parents love Davo and can’t wait for their bonding ceremony. Mitch isn’t sure what they think of him, but considering his relationship with Stromer up until this point, it’s probably not nearly as positive. 

“And I promise I won’t let Ryan beat you up,” Stromer adds. He pretends to be thinking for a moment. “Or Matt.”

“Ha fucking ha,” Mitch mumbles. 

“Seriously,” Stromer says, and he sounds serious. “I want you to come. We’re friends, aren’t we, Marns?”

“Yeah, Stromer, we’re friends. And I’d love to play in your stupid ball hockey game.”

“Fuck you, it’s not stupid,” Stromer returns, just like Mitch knew he would. “I’ll text you the address.”

Mitch barely sleeps the night before the game. He gets to Stromer’s family home early, although there are already several guys milling around the yard. “Marns!” Stromer calls. He’s wearing a pair of basketball shorts that are riding pretty low on his hips and nothing else. Mitch feels his throat go dry at the sight.

“Hey, Stromer,” he greets. “How’s things?”

“Good, good,” Stromer agrees. “We’ve got Gatorade if you want, or water. We’re gonna pick teams when a couple more people get here. Davo’s not here yet, but he texted that he was on his way.”

“That’s good,” Mitch agrees, grabbing a water. It’s still early, but it’s going to be a hot day, and it’s always good to stay hydrated. 

Davo shows up a few minutes later, and Ryan grabs him almost immediately. “No way you’re playing with Dyls,” he declares. “No way we’re letting him play with his soulmate.”

“Fine,” Dylan says with a grin. “I’m keeping Marns though. Mitch, you’ve met my brother Ryan, right?” he asks. The way he says it makes Mitch think that Ryan at least knows what both of Dylan’s wrists say.

When it comes to the game itself, Mitch doesn’t know quite what he was expecting, but it definitely wasn’t this. He’s pretty sure he’s played in less competitive championship games, which is fucking saying something. The third time Ryan hip-checks him off the ball with more force than necessary, Mitch decides that he’s done with this, so the next time Ryan tries, he trips him and passes the ball to Stromer all in one neat move. 

By the time they call the game, it’s hotter than hell, and Mitch feels like he’s dying. Davo’s panting in the other team’s net where Ryan stuck him in the vain hope that Mitch and Stromer would feel bad scoring on him. 

“You’re both assholes,” Davo tells him, grumpy frown firmly in place, when Mitch brings him a Gatorade. 

“You gotta do what you can to win,” Mitch tells him with a shrug. He’s feeling pretty good about the whole day. 

That feeling continues even when Stromer throws a sweaty arm over his shoulders and tugs him in the direction of the backyard. There’s food set out, and looking at it is about when Mitch realizes he’s hungry enough to eat a horse. 

“I’m glad you came, Marns,” Stromer says while Mitch grabs a couple of sandwiches. “You should stay. We’re gonna barbeque some steaks later, have some beers. My parents are really excited to meet you.”

Some of his skepticism must show on his face because Stromer rolls his eyes. “Seriously, Marns. It’s not like it’s a secret what my wrists say. All my family and close friends know. From the moment your name came in, my Mom’s been telling me that you were just ‘pulling my pigtails’ and shit like that. And then, after the Halifax, I think they got tired of hearing about you, man. Shit, Davo must have said I told you so like fifteen times.”

Mitch shrugs. “My parents didn’t say anything. My mom took me to buy these,” he taps his ‘guards, “on my birthday. They were pretty freaked out there were two names. Took me to the doctor and everything, only to find out that it’s more common than they thought. Like 1.5% of people have more than one name or something.”

Mitch isn’t quite sure what the face Stromer’s making even means. “I mean, they were good about it after that, I guess. Got me all the resources I could have ever wanted. And I didn’t want it to be a thing, you know? Even then, Davo was the Next One, and I didn’t want people to pay attention to me only because his name was on me.”

“Yeah, I get that,” Stromer agrees. He pulls Mitch in close and presses his face to the back of Mitch’s neck. Mitch feels his breath catch in his chest, unsure of what’s even happening. Should he step away or lean back? 

“Dyl, Mom’s looking for you,” Stromer’s younger brother calls. Stromer reluctantly pulls back, but he makes no move to pull away completely from Mitch, so when his brother rounds the corner, Stromer’s still got an arm around him.

“Ugh,” the younger one complains. “We’re fucking eating there, Dyls. Keep your gross soulmate stuff away from the food.”

Stromer flips his brother off but heads off to find out what his mother wants without complaint. 

Mitch spends the rest of the day feeling vaguely unsettled, shooting looks at both Stromer and Davo. Neither of them are acting like anything has changed though. He has a couple of beers, and Stromer insists he stay over.

“We’ll have a sleepover,” Stromer says, eyes bright with enthusiasm and liquor. “It’ll be awesome.”

Which is how Mitch ends up sleeping pressed up against Stromer in a pair of borrowed boxers that are way too big for him. They end up watching _The Hangover_ and making out for most of the film. Stromer Snaps Davo a couple of times, but it’s not weird. It’s almost comfortable, and Mitch almost sees himself fitting, really fitting, between the two of them for the first time. 

~

Davo gets them both tickets to the game against St. John. Thankfully, they’re in a box because Mitch doesn’t want to spend the night signing autographs and accepting consolations from fans. Davo gets him a beer, talking a mile a minute about the Sea Dogs’ every weakness. 

“Chabby’s good though,” Mitch offers because they played together in Finland. 

“Yeah,” Davo agrees. “Dyls is gonna have to watch him closely. They’ve got this though.”

And it turns out that the Otters definitely have it. The game ends 12 fucking 5, and Stromer has 7 fucking points.

“That’s a fucking record,” Davo tells him, his grin so wide that Mitch is half afraid it’s going to split his face in two. 

“Fucking eh,” Mitch agrees, his own grin firmly in place.

It’s easy to be happy for Stromer right now. Mitch wishes it was always this easy.

“I messaged him to see if the team is doing something or if he wants to meet up,” Davo says. “Figured we could get a pizza back at the hotel maybe.”

“Sure,” Mitch agrees. “I could go for pizza. Meat lovers only. No fucking pineapple. I don’t care if Stromer had 7 points tonight, he doesn’t get to make me eat pineapple on pizza.”

“No shit,” Davo agrees. 

They stop on the way back to the hotel and pick up pizza and beer. Davo ends up getting recognized and has to sign like a dozen autographs before they even get their food while Mitch laughs at him and tries to look like he’s not laughing at him. 

“Dyls is gonna meet us at the hotel,” Davo reports, tucking his phone back into his pocket. “Technically, he’s got a curfew, but since they don’t play tomorrow, he doesn’t think anyone will be doing bed checks.”

“I don’t miss fucking bed checks,” Mitch mumbles. He also doesn’t miss buses or homework or being broke all the time, which he remembers all too fucking clearly from his time in the O. 

“Or the buses,” Davo agrees, putting the car into gear. “Or the bus toilets.”

“Oh God,” Mitch agrees because he remembers some horrific bus rides where hours seemed like years, and Mitch wasn’t sure he was going to make it off the bus alive.

Davo looks over at him as they pull to a stop at a red light. “I miss it sometimes too though. Not that I don’t love the Oilers, and planes are a way better way to travel, but there was something about it that just isn’t the same.”

“Yeah,” Mitch agrees because it’s true. He loves Matts and Willy and Marty and everyone else, and he’s always wanted to be a Leaf, but sometimes he misses London. Sometimes he misses how much easier everything seemed.

Sure, the names on his wrists haven’t changed, but sometimes it seems like everything else has.

~

Their draft year is pretty much a blur. Stromer manages to steal the scoring title from Mitch with six points in the final game, and Mitch can’t even be angry. 

_congrats_ Mitch sends Stromer and adds a couple of confetti horn emojis just because he can.

Stromer sends him back a bunch emojis, the only one of which makes sense is the eggplant, and that barely makes sense in this context.

_don’t get 2 comfy_ Mitch adds. _im coming for u in the playoffs_

_bring it_ Stromer sends back, and Mitch knows he means it. Which is good because Mitch meant every word too. 

Mitch turns his entire attention to Kitchener and getting through them on their way to the J. Ross Robertson Cup. He blocks Stromer and Davo and the Otters from his mind, and he’s pretty sure they’re doing the same from the way he suddenly stops getting texts from either of them, not even chirps. (Mitch is pretty glad for that, at least. Sometimes, in situations like these, it’s hard to tell where the chirp ends and the truth begins. He doesn’t need to hear how he’s extra or how Davo and Stromer are perfect for each other. He hears enough from the press about Erie’s power couple as it is.)

The Knights end up making it through Kitchener in six games, but Mitch can’t even take a minute to be happy about it because Erie beat Sarnia in 5, so they’re playing the Otters. 

Because that’s Mitch’s luck. 

He tries to shut it all down and just focus on the game, on doing the right things at the right times. It doesn’t work. Erie kills them at home, and it seems like every time he looks over, Stromer and Davo are busy talking and laughing on the bench. Mitch finds himself fiddling with his ‘guards whenever he’s on the bench, enough that Dvo starts to give him worried looks. 

“You okay, Marns?” he asks when the buzzer goes to end the period.

“Yeah,” Mitch replies, but he knows he probably looks like he’s on something, but he can’t really explain to Dvo why he feels like he can’t breathe right and his heart is being squeezed so much it’s about to explode.

“We got this,” Dvo promises. Max gives him a pat on the ass on their way back to the ice.

They don’t have it.

They don’t have it in Erie, and they don’t have it at home in London, and they get swept. They get fucking swept in the second fucking round, and Mitch has to go through the handshake line and see Stromer and Davo.

Davo’s in the lead and Stromer’s right behind him because of course. (Mitch didn’t really expect anything else; Davo takes his captainly duties very seriously.) Mitch ends up somewhere in the middle of the Knights’ line-up, which turns out to be a blessing. This way neither Davo nor Stromer can actually do much more than pat him on the shoulder and mutter good series or whatever the fuck they’re saying.

Mitch gets off the ice as soon as he possibly can because he doesn’t want anyone to see him cry, but he especially doesn’t want Stromer or Davo to see him like this. 

There’s still press to do because press is right up there with taxes when it comes to inescapable, unpleasant tasks. Mitch thinks he get through it pretty well, and if his eyes look a little red, well, who can blame him?

“We’ll get ‘em next year,” Dvo tells him, bumping their shoulders together companionably. “And you’re only gonna get better, Marns. The sky’s the limit.”

“You too, Dvo,” Mitch mumbles, trying to project optimism for the future when all he wants to do is wallow.

_win it all_ he texts to Stromer and Davo back when he’s curled up in his bed at his billets’. 

_thats the plan :D_ Stromer texts back. 

_u were rlly gud_ Davo sends a couple of minutes later. 

_not good enough_ Mitch sends because he can’t help it. It’s still too close, still hurts too much, and Mitch can’t stop himself.

He expects that Davo will take the hint and leave him the fuck alone, but he forgot that Davo’s too much of a captain to ever let something like that go. So of course Davo phones him.

Fucking phones him from the Erie bus. He can hear the rest of the guys—Davo’s team, Stromer’s team—celebrating in the background. “Don’t say that,” Davo says before Mitch even gets out the word hi.

“Why not? It’s true. You guys won, and we lost.”

“It’s not…” Davo lets out a frustrated breath. “One player is only as good as his team. Even if you’re the best player on the ice, it takes an entire team to win a game. And sometimes, the other team is just that much better.”

“Easy for you to say,” Mitch grumbles, staring up at his ceiling without really seeing it.

“Yeah,” Davo agrees. “It is. But I’ve been on the other side too, Marns. I know what it’s like when everything you do isn’t enough. I know how much it hurts.” 

Mitch tries to think of something to say in response to that, anything. What comes out of his mouth isn’t so much anything resembling speech as it is a sob. “I feel so empty, right now,” he says. “Hollow. Like there’s nothing left.”

“Oh, _Marns_ ,” Davo says. And then someone shouts in the background, and he can hear Stromer telling them to shut it, that Davo’s on the phone with his soulmate, can hear the wolf whistles in the background. The bus does quiet down though. Mitch isn’t even surprised; the Otters love Davo. 

He’s easy to love. 

Stromer’s harder to love, but Mitch has figured him out, at least enough to understand why he is the way he is. 

Mitch has tried to ignore these feelings for as long as he’s known who his soulmates are, but he can’t anymore.

He loves them both. A lot. More than he ever thought possible.

He is so fucking screwed.

~

Stromer shows up not long after they get back to the hotel, all smiles. “Fucking right,” he greets them both.

“Strooomer, you’re a fucking beast,” Davo greets. 

“Great job,” Mitch adds. 

Stromer smiles at the both of them, and he looks so fucking happy that Mitch feels his heart skip a beat. Or that’s what it seems like anyway. 

“You were unreal,” Davo continues. “You’re gonna go all the way.”

“Don’t jinx it,” Stromer replies automatically. Mitch doesn’t even blame him; he’d be the same way. He remembers telling Dvo and Chucky not to make predictions and not to jinx them in Red Deer, but it seems like a lifetime ago now. 

Davo holds up his hands in surrender. “Okay, fine,” he agrees. “You’re not going to change my mind though.”

“There’s pizza,” Mitch offers after a second. 

“With pineapple?” Stromer asks hopefully.

“Fuck no, you heathen,” Mitch replies fondly. “I don’t care if you got 27 points. There’s not going to be pineapple on any pizza I get.”

“I hate you, Marns,” Stromer says with a grin, heading towards the box.

“You too, Stromer,” Mitch replies, his tone fond. 

~

In the end, Stromer and Davo end up losing to Dal Colle and Oshawa. Mitch sends them a couple of conciliatory texts, trying to remember what Davo told him the night London lost, but it feels fake. Neither of them bothers to reply, but Mitch doesn’t blame them. He can’t even imagine how much losing in the championship sucks. 

The Draft is… bigger than Mitch was expecting it to be somehow, and he was already expecting it to be the biggest thing in his entire life. The other guys are all varying levels of nervous and excited, except Eichs who is just pissed. But Eichs is always pissed; Mitch is pretty sure he wouldn’t know how to be anything if he wasn’t pissed. 

Mitch tries not to hold it against him. There are times when his anger has been all that’s gotten him through too. He just hopes Eichs manages to find something else to pin everything on before he drives himself insane. 

He ends up rooming with Stromer because the world hates him. Or possibly loves him. 

“So the bed closest to the window is mine,” Stromer says without preamble, like Mitch doesn’t remember rooming with him in Halifax. 

Mitch tosses his bag on the bed closest to the window just to an obnoxious asshole. If they’re sniping at each other, it’ll give them both something else to worry about until it’s time for the Draft.

Well, something besides the almost oppressive heat and humidity of Florida. Mitch really hopes he doesn’t end up down here like Eks. He’ll probably die. 

By the time Stromer finally pins him down to the bed—Stromer has both height and weight on him, but Mitch is one squirmy fucker—they’re both sweaty and kind of gross.

“Bed closest to the window is mine,” Stromer states triumphantly. 

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Mitch grumbles, but he doesn’t care near as much as he pretends to. 

Stromer doesn’t let him up through. He keeps staring down at Mitch like he’s trying to figure something out, but Mitch doesn’t know what.

“Is there something on my face?” Mitch asks.

“Just your ugly mug,” Stromer replies, but it’s such a weak fucking chirp. Mitch doesn’t even bother replying to it, it’s so bad.

Just as Mitch is about to push Stromer off him, or at least try, Stromer leans down and kisses him. It’s not the first time Stromer’s kissed him, but the intent of this one feels different. This feels serious in a way none of their previous make-outs had.

“Marns,” Stromer breathes against his cheek. It feels like something important is about to happen, although Mitch doesn’t know exactly what. The bond between them is practically thrumming, which Mitch didn’t think was even possible.

And then there’s a knock at the door.

“Ignore it,” Stromer whispers, like he’s afraid to say it too loudly.

The knock comes again though, and again, until Stromer levers himself up off of Mitch and goes to yank open the door. 

“Fuck, Davo,” Stromer grumbles. “I fucking hate you, man.”

“Lies,” Davo returns, stepping into their room without so much as a by-your-leave. “I’m sharing with Hanny. He’s okay. Better than Eichs at least. I’m pretty sure that guy hates me.” 

“Pretty sure Eichs just hates everyone,” Mitch offers. “Don’t take it so personally.”

“Kind of hard not to when he’s glaring a hole into your back every chance he gets,” Davo replies, flopping down on Mitch’s bed. “So I came to see what my boys were doing, and clearly I interrupted something fun.”

“We were just deciding who got the bed closest to the window,” Mitch says, trying to look innocent and failing spectacularly if the look on Davo’s face is anything to go by.

“Sure, you were,” Davo drawls. 

“Not my fault you have a dirty, dirty mind, Davo,” Mitch tells him. Stromer looks like he’s trying hard not to laugh. 

“Fuck you both,” Davo says, and even though he didn’t actually mean it, Mitch’s breath still catches in his throat at the thought of it.

Both Davo and Stromer turn to stare at him at the sound though, which only makes Mitch feel even more self-conscious. “What?” he demands.

“You okay there, bud?” Stromer asks.

“Fine,” Mitch replies shortly. 

“‘Cause you look a little flushed,” Stromer continues, settling back on the bed right next to Mitch’s hip. “It’s a pretty good look on you, actually.”

Mitch doesn’t know how to respond to Stromer’s flirting. It’s not that he doesn’t understand the theory, he just hasn’t had all that much practice. A lot of his teammates hadn’t bothered waiting for the names that had appeared on their wrists, but it hadn’t seemed right to Mitch. Which means that he doesn’t have much practical experience, apart from making out with Stromer last summer.

Not that he’s going to tell them that.

“Oh fuck you,” Mitch grumbles, well aware that he’s too late, and it barely counts as a chirp at all.

“That’s a thing we could do,” Davo agrees lazily. His eyes give him away; he’s staring at the both of them with the same look he has on his face right before he takes an important faceoff. 

“Yeah,” Stromer agrees, trying to keep his tone casual. “That’s a thing we could do. Or not.” 

And Mitch may not be the brightest crayon in the box—he’s been told on more than one occasion it’s a good thing he’s good at hockey—but even he can see the invitation in that. 

His throat is so dry, Mitch has to swallow twice before he even tries speaking. “Yeah,” he mumbles, sure his face is fire engine bright, “that’s a thing we could do.” 

Stromer’s fingers dig into his hip, and Davo stalks over from the other bed like a lion on the prowl. “You sure, Marns?” Davo asks, his eyes serious. 

“You’re not asking Stromer that,” Mitch protests because he doesn’t want to be the one who seems unsure.

“Yeah, but I can see Stromer’s boner from here,” Davo replies with a shrug and a grin. 

“Well my soulmates are pretty hot,” Stromer says without a hint of shame. 

Davo gets up and starts digging through Stromer’s suitcase. Mitch is about to demand what he’s looking for when Davo tosses a bottle of lube and a strip of condoms on the bed beside Stromer.

“So how do we want to do this?” Davo asks, his voice muffled by the fact he’s pulling his t-shirt over his head.

“Marns?” Stromer asks, stroking one hand down Mitch’s hip.

“I don’t know,” Mitch mumbles, feeling the blush rise up his neck. “I don’t have a lot of practical experience.”

“How much is a lot?” Davo demands, staring at him with an almost unsettling intensity. 

Mitch can’t meet either of their eyes. “None,” he manages to force out, staring resolutely at the ceiling. 

Stromer makes a punched-out sound and grabs at his hip hard enough that it’s going to leave bruises. 

“Fuck,” Davo swears. He walks around the bed, unbuckling his belt and leaving his pants and underwear in an untidy pile at the end of the bed, his flip-flops abandoned at the door. 

Stromer stands and strips so quickly that Mitch can barely appreciate all the skin that’s now on display. 

“We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do, Marns,” Stromer says. He looks so serious that Mitch can’t help remembering every lecture he’s ever gotten about consent. He can’t hold back the giggles, which only get worse at Stromer’s offended look.

“You sound like every consent seminar I’ve ever been forced to attend,” Mitch finally forces out. “Only I might have actually paid more attention if you were giving them.”

“Ha-fucking-ha,” Stromer grumbles, poking him in the side. “See if I take your feelings into account next time, asshole.”

“Aww, you love me, Stromer,” Mitch coos, poking Stromer back. 

Stromer leans over and kisses him, probably to get him to shut up, but Mitch is only too happy to kiss him back. This, at least, is familiar. Stromer pulls back eventually, but before he can catch his breath, Davo is leaning down and pressing their lips together.

Davo’s lips are slightly chapped and kissing him feels different than kissing Stromer. Davo’s more insistent, more overwhelming somehow. Mitch doesn’t know why he thought they’d be the same.

“You okay?” Davo asks when he pulls back, his voice soft and intimate.

“Yeah,” Mitch agrees.

“Good,” Stromer interrupts with his usual brashness. “Get naked then.”

Part of Mitch wants to stall just to mess with Stromer, but another, larger part of him feels a little weird being the only one still dressed. “Let me up then,” he says.

Both Stromer and Davo pull back far enough for him to crawl to the end of the bed and start stripping. He can feel their eyes on him though, hot and full of promise. Mitch tries not to shiver under their regard, but he’s not sure he succeeds.

“Come here,” Davo demands as soon as he kicks off his underwear. He’s still wearing his socks, which is just about the least sexy thing in the entire world.

“Let me take off my socks at least,” Mitch protests, fitting actions to words and removing his socks.

Almost as soon as his socks hit the pile, Stromer is dragging him backwards. He ends up between the two of them again, eyes squeezed shut and both of them pressing against him insistently. It almost seems too good to be true.

“Hey, Marns.” Stromer keeps his voice low. Soft. Intimate. “Open your eyes and look at me, babe,” he commands, and Mitch is helpless to disobey.

Mitch doesn’t quite know what the look in Stromer’s eyes means, but it’s _too much_ , and he can’t keep looking. His eyes flit over to Davo, but his look is just as intense.

“If it’s too much, just say,” Stromer tells him, and he probably doesn’t mean it like a dare, but that’s how it sounds to Mitch.

“Like you could ever be too much,” Mitch shoots back, pulling Stromer down and kissing him hard. Thankfully, it seems to spur Davo on because he presses half a dozen kisses to the side of Mitch’s neck.

They both pull back at the same time, and he can hear them muttering to one another, the words indistinct.

“Marns,” Davo says, “what do you want?”

And how can Mitch even explain what he wants? He wants his _soulmates_ , the names on his wrists, but there’s a bond between them he can’t even hope to compete with. There’s no room for him, and there never has been. 

He can’t say that, any of that, so he says the only thing he can think of that will get him as close to that as possible, if only just for a little while. 

“Everything. I want everything.”

And for a little while, at least, he has it.

~

The Otters are off the next day, the beneficiaries of the fact the OHL is hosting this year, so they don’t have to play back-to-backs. Mitch remembers Red Deer last year, the way everything had felt rushed but also unbearably long. 

Stromer heads back to the Otters’ hotel before the sun rises. Davo offers to drive him while Mitch stays back at the hotel to try and think. To try and figure out what’s going to happen when they leave this perfect little bubble and head back to the real world when the Memorial Cup ends on Sunday. 

Tries to figure out _how_ to go back to the real world after this. Because that’s the reality of it. He goes back to Toronto, and Davo goes back to Edmonton, and Stromer goes to Arizona, and he seems them each twice a year if he’s lucky. He gets included in the important texts and some of the not so important ones, and pretty much all of the stupid ones, if he’s lucky. And Stromer and Davo probably spend their bye weeks together, and he’ll always be on the outside.

Because that’s the reality of it. That’s always been the reality of it. He’s the unnecessary one. He’s the one who doesn’t fit.

And this fantasy world, this world where Stromer and Davo look at him with such affection—because even in this fantasy world he can’t use the word love—and touch him with tenderness, it’s all an illusion. It’ll end as soon as the tournament does, and Mitch almost wishes he could hate them.

Because now he knows what he’s never going to have.

And he wants.

Oh, how he wants.

~

The day of the Draft, Mitch is so nervous that he might puke before they call his name. Or else he’s going to trip up the stairs and never be able to live it down for the rest of his career. He can barely sit still in his seat between his parents, and he can’t help fiddling with his ‘guards almost obsessively. 

“You’re going to do great, honey,” his mom says, patting his shoulder. “You had a great season, and the scouting reports were all amazing.”

That’s not entirely true; a lot of the reports are worried about his size, but he knows his mom is just trying to reassure him, so he tries to let her.

Stromer and Davo both send messages in their group chat while they wait. Stromer sends a simple thumbs-up emoji, and Davo sends him a bunch of stupid kitten pictures. Mitch sends back the flexing arm emoji and also the picture of Davo as Jesus because if he can’t use it now, when can he use it?

_bless me, mcjesus_ Stromer adds a second later. 

Davo sends a whole string of middle finger emojis in reply and then Mitch has to tuck his phone away because they Draft is starting, and the last thing he wants is to be accused of not paying attention.

(Actually, the last thing he wants is to not be paying attention and miss them calling his name. It’s been a recurring nightmare for like the last week.) 

Bettman is making his speech, welcoming everyone to the Draft, and Mitch can barely hear the words. The Oilers are picking first, and of course they’re going to pick Davo. 

And pick Davo they do. They have new, godawful orange jerseys, customized with McDavid already. Davo looks excited, but of course he does. It’s the first day of the rest of his life, after all.

Eichs goes second to Buffalo, which is also expected. Davo’s hanging out around the side of the stage, so he’s right there when Stromer comes down off the stage dressed in Arizona red. Or maroon. Mitch can’t decide what colour it is, exactly.

He doesn’t have time to figure out what colour it is exactly, however, because Toronto is next, and they’re calling _his_ name. They want _him_.

Being a Maple Leaf has been one of his dreams since he first put on skates. He’s scored the game-winning goal in Game 7 of the Stanley Cup Finals wearing Leaf blue a million times in his own head. 

It’s a dream he never thought would come true in a million years.

Only here is now, pulling a Leafs jersey over his head an shaking Shanahan’s hand.

This is everything he’s ever wanted from the moment he first realized hockey was a career. This is everything he’s ever worked for. He tries to ignore the fact that Stromer and Davo didn’t wait for him.

He’s pretty sure NHL PR has probably stolen the both of them for photos with Eichs anyway. He makes it to the back room and gets whisked away for pictures of his own, smiling and looking serious and posing awkwardly with a stick made for someone much, much taller than him.

He’s never been so happy to be taking ridiculous photos in his entire life. 

“Marns,” Stromer shouts just as the photographer is finishing up. “Look at you!”

Davo’s there a couple of minutes later, and he doesn’t say anything but he opens his arms and lets Mitch step into them. Stromer wraps them both up so tightly that Mitch can barely breathe.

“We did it,” Davo whispers. “All of us.”

“There was never any doubt,” Stromer says. “We were made for this.”

Mitch just stands there and breathes and doesn’t say anything, trying to soak it all in. This is the closest he’s ever felt to his soulmates, and he still can’t help but feel like he was left behind. Like he’s never quite able to catch up to them no matter how hard he tries.

~

Mitch has a good feeling about the Otters’ chances to win the whole damn thing, so of course they crash and burn rather spectacularly against Windsor. All right, it’s 4-2, which isn’t a drubbing like half the games in this tournament, but it means Windsor gets the bye straight to the final and Stromer and his Otters are going to have to play a highly motivated St. John team that definitely haven’t forgotten their 12-5 drubbing only a few days ago.

Stromer is understandably… still irritated when he and Davo find him a couple of hours later. 

“Just fucking typical, isn’t it?” Stromer grumbles. “Always falling down at the last fucking hurdle. Allergic to fucking winning.”

“You’re not out yet,” Davo says, keeping his tone mild. Stromer grumbles, but that seems to soothe him. Mitch wishes he knew what to say, but he just sort of hovers there awkwardly on the edge of everything. “You’ve just got to take it one game at a time.”

“Yeah,” Stromer agrees, but he doesn’t seem very enthusiastic about it.

“You know how to do this, Stromer,” Davo continues. “And you know I’m here for whatever you need.”

“Yeah,” Mitch mumbles, and they both turn to look at him. 

“Let’s go get food,” Davo says, almost like Mitch hadn’t spoken. 

“You’re buying,” Stromer grumbles, but there’s a hint of a smile peeking out now.

“No shit,” Davo grumbles. Mitch would feel bad about the put out look on Davo’s face if he didn’t know exactly how much bonus money Davo raked in this year.

They end up in a McDonald’s, which is so not in anyone’s meal plan, and also clearly part of some ritual Mitch isn’t a part of, so he mostly just sits there with a large carton of fries and listens to them go over the game in excruciating detail. It’s kind of interesting to hear just how much Davo sees but also kind of terrifying, and Mitch is glad he only has to play Davo twice a year.

Mitch doesn’t know why he does it, but he opens his mouth and says something flip about their goalie staying in his net—he doesn’t even know why except that he’s tired of sitting quietly and being ignored, always ignored—and Stromer looks over at him and all that anger from before is back.

“Why the fuck are you even here then?” Stromer demands. “Since it’s clear you don’t fucking want to be?”

And the world seems to slow down while Stromer waits for his answer. Davo puts a hand on Stromer’s shoulder, almost like he’s scared Stromer is going to reach across the table and try to strangle him, just like in the bad old days.

And suddenly Mitch is just so done with it all. He’s not even angry anymore. He’s just done. “Been asking myself that question for five years, Strome,” he replies since it seems like both Stromer and Davo are waiting for his answer. “But I guess I was fooling myself thinking there was ever a place here for me, huh?”

He doesn’t wait to hear what either of them have to say to that, just gets up and walks out. He wanders around Windsor for a couple of hours before flagging down a cab and heading back to Davo’s hotel room. He doesn’t have a plan besides getting the fuck out of here as soon as possible, but it’s enough. It’s more than enough.

Thankfully, Davo’s not there, so Mitch is able to grab his shit and book an Uber to take him back to his parents’ place. It’s going to cost him a ridiculous amount of money, but literally anything is better than spending any more time here.

Besides, he’s made it to the Show now. If he wants to take a four-hour Uber ride, he can totally afford it. 

It doesn’t take long for his Uber driver to show up, and the guy seems chill enough. He definitely recognizes Mitch and makes some idle comments about both the Memorial Cup and the Leafs’ chances next year. Mitch remains non-committal though, and the ride lapses into silence soon enough. 

He keeps his phone out, just in case either Stromer or Davo—Strome or McDavid now he supposes—try to contact him, but it remains stubbornly silent.

He’s not really surprised.

It’s not until he crawls into his bed at his parents’ place at like four in the morning, after tipping his Uber driver outrageously, that he lets himself cry. Once he starts though, he doesn’t stop until he doesn’t have any tears left.

~

Mitch gets sent back from Leafs camp as one of the first cuts. And it’s not like he wasn’t expecting it, but it still stings. He wanted the chance to show everyone still talking about how he’s too fucking small to make it in the NHL exactly what he’s capable of.

Stromer gets sent back from Arizona too.

Davo does not sent back from Edmonton.

Literally no one on the entire planet is surprised by this.

Mitch and Stromer spend a couple of days sending Davo links to recipes that in no way involve Kraft Dinner when he admits he’s going to be living with Taylor Hall this season. 

Mitch marks the games where the Knights play the Otters on his calendar (they only play the Otters once before Christmas and World Juniors) and tries not to think about it too much.

It doesn’t work. He thinks about it all the time. 

Even if all he gets to do is grin at Stromer from across the dot and then do his best to send Stromer to the box for a couple of minutes or less. Preferably less.

Stromer seems a lot harder to get going now though, which kind of sucks for Mitch’s game. They lose 3-1, and Mitch heads back to the room feeling a little sick.

Stromer sends him a Snap while Mitch is sitting on the bus on the way back to London. It’s a selfie, and Mitch can tell that Stromer’s shirtless at the very least. It’s captioned _c u at wj camp_ with half a dozen little Canadian flag emojis. 

Mitch sends back a terrible selfie of himself pressed up against the bus window with about a dozen thumbs up emojis.

And then Davo gets drilled into the boards by a fucking Flyer and breaks his goddamn collarbone. He’s out until after Christmas at least, which means that the infinitesimally slim hope that Mitch and half of Canada had been holding that the Oilers would let Davo go to World Juniors is gone, and half the reports Mitch will deny reading until the end of time think he’ll be out until February or later. 

Mitch gets Stromer’s Snap of Davo’s return to Erie same as everyone else. He Skypes with the both of them the next day and tries not to let them see how useless he feels. It’s not like Stromer could come to London any more than Mitch could go to Erie, after all.

“Miss you, Marns,” Davo mumbles, still a little dopey from whatever pain medication he’s been given, when they’re wrapping up their call.

Mitch has to swallow around the lump in his throat a couple of times before he can reply. “Miss you too, Davo.”

And then they actually get to Finland, and it’s a fucking mess. The team never really gels the way everyone was expecting them to, and they end up losing to the hosts in the quarterfinals.

For Mitch—and for Stromer too from the looks of it—the loss stings even more since they’ve essentially lost Davo’s gold medal. 

Stromer ends up crying on the ice after it’s all over, and there’s not a goddamn thing Mitch can do to make it better. That’s almost worse than the loss.

Davo Skypes them when they’re finally released from media. Mitch feels hollow and empty inside, and he’s pretty sure Stromer feels the same.

“You two have nothing to be ashamed of,” Davo says as soon as Stromer accepts the call. It’s his captain’s voice, Mitch is pretty sure.

“We lost, Davo,” Mitch replies dully. “In the quarter-fucking-finals. I’m not even sure they’re going to let us back into the fucking country.”

On his left, Stromer makes a wounded noise; Mitch reaches over and squeezes his shoulder automatically, well aware that his comfort is not what Stromer wants.

“You two played fine,” Davo returns, tone sharp. “Some of the other guys should have fucking known better. What the fuck was Virts thinking?” 

And yeah, Mitch doesn’t really believe in blaming his teammates because they win as a team and they lose as a team, but Virts took some pretty fucking stupid penalties. He shrugs. “I don’t know,” he answers. “You’d have to ask him.”

“I might,” Davo says. 

Stromer finally manages to add something. “Sorry, Davo,” he mumbles. 

“You’ve got nothing to be sorry for, Stromer,” Davo declares, and that is definitely his captain’s voice. “You and Marns left everything on the ice. I’m so fucking proud of the both of you.”

Mercifully, Davo doesn’t go over the game because the last thing Mitch wants to do right now is relive that shitshow. Instead, he talks mostly about his rehab and his holiday and what his teammates are up tp. (And you will never convince Mitch that Taylor Hall is a grown-ass man.)

Mitch lets himself relax enough that he’s hovering somewhere between sleep and wakefulness. 

“Love you,” he can hear Davo say. 

“You too,” Stromer replies. 

Mitch is pretty sure he hears Davo say, “Tell him when he wakes up.”

“I will,” Stromer promises.

The next morning though, they’re so busy getting their shit together and getting the fuck out of Finland that Mitch forgets to ask what Davo was talking about. 

And then it’s back to the grind. Mitch and his Knights are killing it, but so are Stromer and his Otters. Mitch knows deep down in his soul that his OHL and Memorial Cup championship dreams go straight through Stromer.

~

He wakes up in the early afternoon, his eyes gritty and swollen, his everything feeling fragile and broken. He checks his phone, but there’s no messages or missed calls. Mitch tries to convince himself it’s for the best, but it still hurts.

It really fucking hurts.

He tucks his silver medal into his underwear drawer next to his Memorial Cup championship ring and starts sorting his laundry from Europe. He’s so focused on trying to decide if a couple of his dress shirts are dirty enough to need dry cleaning when his phone rings that he nearly misses the call trying to actually find the fucking thing, and he can’t stop the disappointment he feels when he sees Matts’ terrible, terrible picture.

“Hey, Matts,” he answers anyway because it must be something big if Matts is actually phoning him. Matts is a text person. “What’s up?”

“Just thought I’d check and make sure you’d made it back to the 6ix,” Matts says, and that is such a crock of shit that Mitch can’t help snorting. 

“You could have texted, Matts,” he snaps. “So why did you really call?”

Matts sighs. Loudly. “Look, I’m not getting into it with you, but Davo texted me that you might need someone to talk to.”

Mitch can’t stop the ugly laugh that tears itself from his chest at that. “Of fucking course he did. He was never my fucking captain, and he’s still trying to fucking captain me.”

Matts is quiet for a minute. “So clearly there’s a lot more going on here than Davo said. You wanna talk about it?”

And the thing is that Mitch really, really does, but he’s so used to _not_ talking about it that he’s not even sure where to start. “Soulmate shit,” he says because that pretty much always makes people back off. 

“Davo’s your soulmate?” Matts asks. “Because like no offence, but most of the guys think you don’t have one, and that’s why you keep both wrists covered all the time.”

Mitch feels another laugh bubbling up in his chest. “Not quite,” he explains. “One too many. Or maybe that’s me. Maybe I’m the one too many. Probably.”

“Oh-kay, Marns,” Matts drawls. “I think you need to start back at the beginning.”

Mitch takes a deep breath and tries to do just that for the first time ever. “So, my fourteenth birthday, I got my name. Well, names. Two of them. Not _that_ unusual, right?”

“Right?” Matts agrees, his tone going up at the end, like he’s trying to figure out where Mitch is going with this. 

“You already figured out that Davo was one of them. Stromer was the other.” He shrugs even though Matts can’t see him. 

“So you’ve got a name on each wrist then,” Matts says, more like he’s talking to himself than Mitch. “But I don’t really see the problem, Marns.”

And Matts probably doesn’t, is the thing. He didn’t grow up in the GTA or Hockey Canada, so he doesn’t know their history. “Stromer fucking hated me, okay?” he explains tiredly. “Like he wouldn’t have pissed on me if I were on fire. I didn’t even… the first time either of them even acknowledged it was when Stromer and I ended up on the same U17 team.”

“And you? Did you reach out to them?” Matts asks.

“I couldn’t,” Mitch mumbles. “Davo was already McJesus, and Stromer hated my fucking guts.”

“Maybe they were scared too, Marns,” Matts says, keeping his voice calm. “You know not everyone believes in soulmates.”

“Yeah,” Mitch agrees. “I’m pretty sure whatever decides who’s together fucked up this time.” And now that he’s started, he finds he can’t stop. He tells Matts everything. Five years of uncertainty and feeling like the odd man out just seems to pour out. Matts listens to him patiently because Matts is a good bro.

When he finally winds down, he’s crying silently. Matts is quiet for a long time, long enough that Mitch checks to make sure he didn’t accidently hang up.

“Look, I’m not sure exactly how to say this, so I’m just gonna say it,” Matts finally says. “You all need to talk to each other. Just because you’ve got their names on you doesn’t mean you know what they’re thinking and feeling. And just because they’ve got your name doesn’t mean they know what you’re thinking and feeling.”

Mitch kind of feels like he’s gotten punched in the gut. 

He must make some sort of noise because Matts is speaking again, “I mean, you’re an adult, so no one can tell you what to do but Coach. You can get their names blacked out if you want. Lots of people do that now. But no matter what you decide, you should probably talk to them first.”

“When did you get so fucking smart, Matts?” Mitch demands. 

“Some of us can’t get away with communicating with our soulmates through hockey. You should try it some time.”

“So you know who yours is then?” Mitch asks. It’s not like soulmates are exactly taboo in the Leafs locker room, but he’s always been so private about his that the guys have mostly left him out of any conversations involving them. 

“Yeah,” Matts agrees. “I know him. We’re taking it slowly and _talking_ about how it’s gonna work, so that’s all I’m gonna say about that until we decide otherwise.”

And Mitch is dying to know who it is, but Matts never pushed him about his names, so he’ll wait. “Yeah, okay. If you ever need to vent though, I’m here for you. Figure I owe you about ten by now.”

“Just keep making sure I get to practice on time, and we’ll be good,” Matts drawls. 

“I can do that,” Mitch promises.

~

The rest of the season passes in a blur. Mitch and Stromer text each other almost daily, and they both watch Davo absolutely light it up when he makes his triumphant return to the Oilers line-up. He absolutely torches the Leafs and Mitch feels bad for his future teammates. 

His Knights and Stromer’s Otters both finish with 105 points, although the Otters squeak out first place on the strength of a 4-2 win against the Knights in Erie on the last day of the season. It also leaves their season series deadlocked at 3 apiece. They’re just about as even as two teams can possibly be, and Mitch curses whoever decided Erie and London should be in the same fucking conference.

Erie rolls through Saginaw 4-0, while the Knights struggle a bit with Owen Sound, but manage to close the door on them in 6. Davo sends Mitch a bunch of captainly inspiration when the Knights drop Game 5 in OT, no doubt practicing for when he’s named Oilers captain next year.

Mitch borrows a bunch of it for his pre-game speech in Game 6, and they win pretty handily, not that Mitch is going to give Davo any of the credit. Still, he texts Davo a bunch of thumbs up emojis on the way back to London. 

The Knights roll through Kitchener, having found their footing. It feels good, except the Otters steamroll their way through the Soo, dropping only a single game. 

Stromer Snaps him a picture of his mean face with the caption _friends off_ , so Mitch sends back his own mean face selfie. Stromer just sends a bunch of the laugh-crying emojis back.

Mitch isn’t even mad. He knows his mean face is fucking hilarious. Chucky and Dvo tell him that all the time.

London doesn’t let up. The sweep Erie, and honestly, none of the scores are even close. Mitch doesn’t let himself think about it until they’re lining up for the handshake line at the end of the series.

When he actually reaches Stromer in the line though, Mitch can feel his heart seizing in his chest. Stromer’s blinking back tears, but he pulls Mitch close and hugs him tight. “Win it all, Marns,” he whispers. “Win it fucking all.”

“I promise,” Marns whispers back.

And they do. 

In Red Deer, they fucking do. 

Memorial fucking Cup fucking champions. Mitch just wishes that Stromer and Davo were here to share it with him.

~

Mitch knows that Matts is right: he has to talk to Stromer and Davo. There’s no sense in doing it before Monday though. Stromer’s going to be focused on the semi and then hopefully the final, and Mitch definitely doesn’t want to have this conversation twice. Hell, he doesn’t even want to have it once.

Mitch watches the semi-final in his room, even though there’s a lot bigger TV screen downstairs. He doesn’t want to try explaining what’s happened to his parents though, so it’s better off if he just holes up in his room and watches it there.

It’s probably a good thing because Erie wins 6-3, but the game is a lot closer than the 12-5 drubbing the Otters gave St. John in the round robin. Stromer’s through though, and that’s what matters.

He goes to sleep pretty much as soon as the game is over because playing hockey is one thing, but watching it and not being able to do anything? That’s fucking exhausting. He doesn’t bother setting his alarm because he’s officially on vacation and that definitely entitles him to a few lazy mornings.

The next thing he knows he’s getting poked in the forehead, which means his brother has probably decided to be an asshole again. “Fuck off,” he grumbles, trying to pull the blanket up over his head.

“Wow, if Leafs fans could see you now, they’d know you’re not all smiles and sunshine,” Stromer drawls, and his brain is finally waking up enough to realize there’s no way Stromer should be in his room at his parents’ house.

“What the fuck?” he grumbles, sitting up and blinking blearily, and yeah, that’s Stromer, and Davo behind him. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

“I came to talk to you, you dumb shit,” Stromer replies without a pause. “Davo’s here because he drove.”

“You should be in Windsor,” Mitch protests. “You play tomorrow. What the fuck, Davo? Why the fuck would you let him come here?”

“This is a little bit more important than a hockey game,” Stromer says, glaring down at Mitch.

“Who are you and what have you done with Stromer?” Mitch asks, and he’s only partly joking. The Stromer he knows would never say that.

“Don’t even joke, Mitchell,” Stromer grumbles. “Get dressed. We’re not having this conversation while you’re naked in bed.”

Because he’s a bit of a shit, Mitch flops back and throws his arms wide. Behind Stromer, Davo rolls his eyes. “Get up, Marns. Put on some clothes. Be halfway decent.”

“Impossible,” Stromer chirps. “We’ll see you downstairs,” he adds when Davo glares at the both of them.

As soon as Stromer closes Mitch’s bedroom door—and a part of Mitch still can’t believe they’re both here—Mitch kicks off his blankets and grabs a pair of mostly clean shorts from the floor and a t-shirt from the suitcase he abandoned while he was talking to Matts.

Davo and Stromer and sitting in his parents’ kitchen drinking coffee, and that’s fucking surreal.

“We stopped at Tims,” Stromer says, holding out an Iced Cap like a peace offering. Mitch takes it because duh. “Your brother let us in before he left for an appointment,” he adds with a shrug. “I’m pretty sure he was just trying to give us some space.”

“Probably,” Mitch agrees. He doesn’t know what else to say. 

Davo and Stromer are silent for several long minutes, so long that Mitch is beginning to wonder why they’re even here. 

“Look,” Stromer begins. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have snapped at you.” He blows out a deep breath. “I was just frustrated, and you’re an easy target. Davo’s so used to my shit after a bad game that I forget you’re not.”

Mitch shrugs because what the fuck do you even say to that? He sets his Iced Cap down on the table and pushes it back and forth slowly, watching the condensation leave trails on the table. “You weren’t wrong though,” he says finally. He wishes he felt like a weight had been lifted from his shoulders or something equally poetic, but he honestly just feels sick. “I don’t…” he pauses for a minute and tries to regroup, “I don’t fit with you.”

“What?” That’s Davo, his tone icy. “Who told you that?”

“No one needed to tell me, Davo,” Mitch mumbles tiredly. “Did you know I was so excited for my name? And when I woke up…” Mitch fumbles with his ‘guards. He almost never takes them off, so his fingers are clumsy and slow, but he gets them off eventually. No one even chirps him. “And then there you were. My parents didn’t know what to do with me, but it wasn’t hard to figure out.” He waves at the ‘guards. “Cover it up.”

“Marns,” Stromer says, and there’s something in his tone that makes Mitch look up sharply. He’s never seen the emotion on Stromer’s face before, but he’s pretty sure it’s not good. 

“It’s fine. They were right. Couldn’t just show up with the name of the next coming of Hockey Jesus on one wrist and my biggest enemy on the other, could I? Besides, all I wanted people to remember was my play on the ice, not whose names I had. I needed to be the one to do it.”

He picks up his Iced Cap just to have something to do with his hands. “And everywhere I turned it was Stromer and Davo. Otters for life, best friends, or whatever,” he waves a hand. “It’s okay. I know I’m never gonna get that,” he continues. “It was hard. _Is_ hard sometimes. Wednesday was one of those things. So… sorry.”

“That’s not…” Davo breaks off, clearly frustrated. “With Dyls, it was easy. We were together all time, even when we wanted to kill each other. His name came in first, of course, and then yours, and I didn’t… I was too focused on hockey to care about soulmates. Dyls just sort of bulldozed his way through everything. I guess I just thought it would be the same with you, which is kind of stupid. Good things take work, and you two, you’re my best thing.”

“Better than hockey?” Mitch teases, trying to lighten the mood. 

“Better than hockey,” Davo agrees, and he looks fucking serious.

“You’re a fucking idiot,” Stromer growls. “I thought you realized how important you were to us. To _me_. I didn’t realize you needed the words.”

“You always call me Marns,” Mitch says because even though it seems like a small thing, it bothers him. “Like it’s just hockey.”

Stromer gets up and crowds close to him. “Oh, Mitchell,” he says, his voice soft and full of something Mitch is afraid to name. “It was never _just_ hockey. It wasn’t even mostly hockey. Although your hockey’s pretty fucking amazing.” 

“So are you,” Mitch replies, his voice almost whisper-quiet. “You’re always enough. _You’ve always been enough_ , Dylan. Dyls.” Mitch lets the name roll of his tongue. Relishes it.

Dylan leans down and kisses him then, so hard their teeth click together. 

“Come back to Windsor?” Dylan asks when they finally pull apart. “I want you both there, no matter what.”

“You should come back with us,” Davo—Connor—says. “Dyls and I watched you win in Red Deer on TV, but this would be better.”

“You watched me?” Mitch asks, his voice small and hopeful.

“We weren’t sure you’d want us there,” Dyls says. “But we wanted to be with you, at least a little.” 

“I wanted you there,” Mitch mumbles. “I just didn’t think you wanted to be there.” He laughs a little. “Matts was right.”

“Oh?” Connor asks.

“He said we needed to talk because being soulmates doesn’t mean you have an instant understanding.”

“I’m going to send him a fruit basket,” Connor announces. “You think he’d like a fruit basket?”

Mitch can’t help but laugh. “Yeah, I think so,” he agrees. 

“Now get your shit so we can get back to the boys,” Dyls commands.

“Aye, aye, captain.” Mitch throws in a salute because he’s still gotta be himself.

Dyls flips him off in response, and Mitch feels something bubble up in his chest. It’s like the euphoria of winning the Memorial Cup last year, but more.

So much more.

~

Mitch makes the Leafs out of camp, which still seems surreal. He Snaps Davo and Stromer a picture of his Leafs sweater and the caption _made it!!!_.

Stromer phones him almost immediately. 

“Fuck yeah,” Stromer greets as soon as Mitch picks up the phone. 

“I thought for sure they were sending me back,” Mitch confesses. “But Babcock was all welcome to the team and we expect great things out of you. I just nodded stupidly.”

“Shit man, that’s gotta be so cool,” Stromer enthuses. “You’re gonna have to get your parents tickets for the home opener. There goes like your first cheque.”

“Worth it,” Mitch enthuses.

“Fuck yeah, man,” Stromer repeats. “You’re gonna kill it.”

It takes the Coyotes almost six more weeks to send Stromer back. Mitch is hanging out with Matts and Willy and Mo when he gets the notification. Davo phones him about ten minutes later, and he’s pissed in a way he almost never is.

“This is such fucking bullshit,” he hisses. 

“Yeah,” Mitch agrees. 

“Stromer deserves more; he deserves a real chance to show what he can do.”

“You’re preaching to the choir,” Mitch agrees. 

“I hate this,” Davo grumbles, and it’s real and honest. “I hate that I can’t do anything for him.”

“That’s not true, Davo,” Mitch replies. “Stromer needs us now more than ever.”

Davo lets out a long sigh, like he’s letting go of all his anger. “I know, Marns. At least I’ll still be able to kick your ass this year.”

“You can fucking try, McJesus,” Mitch replies with real heat. 

When he finally gets a hold of Stromer hours later—apparently Phoenix, Arizona to Erie, Pennsylvania is a hell of a trip—all he says is, “You’re gonna crush it.”

“Everyone’s hopes and dreams?” Stromer asks, voice dripping with bitterness and disdain.

“Well, you’re gonna be so good, Arizona’s gonna cry,” Mitch agrees, refusing to fall into that trap. “And so is everyone who has to play you. The O isn’t going to know what hit it. I might even let you have some of my trophies. Maybe.”

“Oh, you might let me, huh?” Stromer demands, but his tone is already closer to normal. 

“Yeah, maybe. I mean, you’ll never be as good as me, but who is, really?” Mitch continues breezily. “Matts, maybe. If he’s lucky, but…”

“Oh fuck you, man,” Stromer interrupts and then goes on to detail every instance on ice that Mitch has ever sucked in his life, going all the way back to when they were like 12 years old.

Mitch has to admire his dedication to completeness.

~

Mitch thought that playing in the final was stressful last year, had thought that the final intermission between the end of the third and the start of overtime was as tense as a human being could possibly be.

He was wrong. Watching the clock tick down while Erie trails by a goal is definitely the tensest he’s ever been. And that’s without Connor’s increasingly profane commentary on his left.

And then it’s over. Dyls and the Otters have lost to the Spits. Mitch can hardly believe it.

“Fuck,” Connor swears with fervour. Mitch feels the same way.

The sit through the awarding of the MVP and top scorer—both go to Dyls, even though Mitch knows they’re not going to mean anything to him in this moment—and the awarding of the Cup. They sit through Windsor taking their skate with the Cup. 

Eventually, when most of the crowd has cleared out, they make their way down to the Otters’ dressing room. It’s quiet in a way the room only is after big losses. Connor goes in first while Mitch hangs around outside the door, unsure of his welcome.

Connor appears a moment later and practically drags Mitch into the room. Dyls is sitting in his stall, head hanging low, still in his gear. It’s so fucking reminiscent of that night in Helsinki that Mitch feels his stomach churn.

He sits down next to Dyls (whose wrists are bare, he notes absently) and doesn’t think to question the fact that whoever the stall belongs to just moves over for him. “Hey, Dyls,” he calls, putting a hand on Dylan’s shoulder and then sliding it down to the wrist that bears his name when Dylan doesn’t shrug him off. He rubs little circles over the crossed sticks, and that seems to give them both a little comfort.

“Sorry,” Dylan says, and when he looks up, there’s tears in his eyes just like Mitch feared there would be. “I couldn’t win it for you.”

“Oh, babe, no,” Mitch mutters. “You were fucking amazing, and I’m the lucky one.”

“You played amazing, Dyls,” Connor adds from where he’s standing in front of Dylan, seemingly shielding him from the rest of the room. “You gave it everything you had, and no one can ask any more than that.” He grins. “Besides, you did better than I ever did.”

Dylan musters up a watery smile for that, at least. Mitch leans into him, pressing their shoulders together. “Go shower, Dyls. You fucking reek. After that, we can go get drunk or teepee Sergachev’s billets’ or whatever.”

Dylan leans back into him. “I just want to go home, Mitchy,” he says. “I just want to fall asleep with my soulmates and wake up and still have you be there. And then go and get really greasy breakfast. And then do it all again the next day.”

“We can do that, Dyls,” Mitch promises. “We can totally do that.”

~

Mitch is really excited for the start of his second training camp as a part of the Toronto Maple Leafs. He grins at Matts across the locker room and submits to Marty’s headlock with as much grace as he can muster. He greets the new rookies with grins and fist bumps. And then Babs is there, going over exactly what he expects to see. It’s gonna be great, is the thing. Mitch is already buzzing for the season. 

Mitch lets out a whoop as soon as he gets on the ice, and a couple of the other guys join him. About halfway through practice, Mitch is waiting in line to start a shooting drill when Matts cuts his way into line next to him and shoves Mitch so hard he barely manages to catch himself. The rookies, staring at them both with wide eyes, say absolutely nothing. 

Mitch shoves him back. Matts doesn’t even pretend to move because Matts is a dick. “You have a good summer?” Mitch asks. 

“Yeah,” Matts agrees. “You work things out with them?”

Mitch is going to blame his flush on exertion if anyone asks, but he doesn’t think Matts is going to buy it.

“Looks like you had a very good summer,” Matts adds before Mitch says anything, his tone sly. “Please, spare me the details.”

And then he’s called away to take his turn before Mitch has the time to think up a witty comeback. 

After practice, the locker room is full of chirps as guys mock each other over their respective summers. Mitch mostly ignores the din around him, caught up in his own mind. He meets Matts’s gaze across the locker room, but then Willy is there, chattering about his summer in Sweden and how many hot girls he hooked up with. He’s even got a phone full of pictures of him with ridiculously hot Swedish girls.

“Fucking lies,” Matts chirps. “No way you wheel that many hotties.” Mitch joins in chirping Willy because he’s not going to pass up the opportunity to get in a few hits on their resident supermodel. 

Marty’s watching him like a hawk, but he’s not saying anything. And it takes Mitch a little while to realize that he didn’t bother putting his ‘guards back on when he got out of the shower. 

He got used to not wearing them over the summer, but he should probably get back in the habit before he forgets in front of the press and it’s game over. He gives Marty a rueful grin as he grabs them from his cubby. 

Matts is there all of a sudden. “Yeah,” he says with a grin. “You had a really good summer.”

Mitch isn’t even going to try and deny it. “Yeah,” he agrees. “I really, really did.”

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, Shmorgas, I really hope you like this. I tried to include as many of your likes as I could, and I didn't feel like the narrative was confusing, but I'm also not the best judge of that. 
> 
> Also, the results of the games and drafts are as correct as I could make them, which sometimes made things a lot more difficult than it needed to be. Why doesn't real life respect my narrative? (Looking at you, Memorial Cup Final 2017.)


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